When I say “winter”
I mean he and I walking fast underneath a black sky
with stars like ice crystals –
so sharp that you’d cut yourself, if you touched them.
I remember his breathing making little ghosts in the air,
and how I forced myself not to look at him
for as long as I wanted to.

When I say “it’s ok,”
I mean cry in your confusion like you’re 2 years old.
Scream, sob, clench your fists,
dig your nails in my back and get snot on my shoulder,
but do not be ashamed,
and don’t let go ‘til you’re ready.
Please.

When I say “generous,”
I mean a woman who let me in her house at 2:30am,
with tousled hair, half closed eyes, a sleepy smile,
and no trace of irritation…
who made us breakfast at noon, and told us her own dark stories,
curled up in our pjs while the sky dropped soft snow outside.
And I mean that this is what it feels like to be loved.

When I say “church,”
I mean “acceptance.”
When I say “friendship,”
I mean “love.”
When I say “thank you,”
I mean “you saved me.”

How is it that you can hate with such passion
when somewhere the moon has risen tonight
over your burial place?

(I can hear the sound of your beloved weeping
carried over the cemetery wall
by the same breeze that cools the face of your enemy)

Don’t you know we’re all connected?

The roots of your hatred wind down deeper than you think,
like the roots in the cemetery,
down through the topsoil
winding around rocks, pieces of old metal, plastic, and bone.

Don’t you know that anger rots your bones
even as you live and breath?

Look.
There is a tree in the cemetery.
Two enemies were buried on either side.
Look how tall it’s grown,
heedless to the hatred that nourishes its roots.

(I am asking you, lady, to forgive.
I am asking you to remember how you have been forgiven.)

Here, here is an invitation
to toss away the label “enemy”,
to forget what has gone before
to move forward, free and light

as the leaves blown off the cemetery trees
floating free and spinning slowly
lightened of their clinging load.

You may not have another chance.

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